[Editorial] paroquet -> parakeet

src/epub/text/the-day-we-celebrate.xhtml

@@ -9,7 +9,7 @@
 		<article id="the-day-we-celebrate" epub:type="se:short-story">
 			<h2 epub:type="title">The Day We Celebrate</h2>
 			<p>“In the tropics” (“Hop-along” Bibb, the bird fancier, was saying to me) “the seasons, months, fortnights, weekends, holidays, dog-days, Sundays, and yesterdays get so jumbled together in the shuffle that you never know when a year has gone by until you’re in the middle of the next one.”</p>
-			<p>“Hop-along” Bibb kept his bird store on lower Fourth Avenue. He was an ex-seaman and beachcomber who made regular voyages to southern ports and imported personally conducted invoices of talking parrots and dialectic paroquets. He had a stiff knee, neck, and nerve. I had gone to him to buy a parrot to present, at Christmas, to my Aunt Joanna.</p>
+			<p>“Hop-along” Bibb kept his bird store on lower Fourth Avenue. He was an ex-seaman and beachcomber who made regular voyages to southern ports and imported personally conducted invoices of talking parrots and dialectic parakeets. He had a stiff knee, neck, and nerve. I had gone to him to buy a parrot to present, at Christmas, to my Aunt Joanna.</p>
 			<p>“This one,” said I, disregarding his homily on the subdivisions of time⁠—“this one that seems all red, white, and blue⁠—to what genus of beasts does he belong? He appeals at once to my patriotism and to my love of discord in colour schemes.”</p>
 			<p>“That’s a cockatoo from Ecuador,” said Bibb. “All he has been taught to say is ‘Merry Christmas.’ A seasonable bird. He’s only seven dollars; and I’ll bet many a human has stuck you for more money by making the same speech to you.”</p>
 			<p>And then Bibb laughed suddenly and loudly.</p>

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@@ -18,7 +18,7 @@
 			<p>“I wasn’t even asked to the wedding. I reckon the bride had my pedigree and the front elevation of my habits all mapped out, and she decided that Perry would trot better in double harness without any unconverted mustang like Buck Caperton whickering around on the matrimonial range. So it was six months before I saw Perry again.</p>
 			<p>“One day I was passing on the edge of town, and I see something like a man in a little yard by a little house with a sprinkling-pot squirting water on a rosebush. Seemed to me, I’d seen something like it before, and I stopped at the gate, trying to figure out its brands. ’Twas not Perry Rountree, but ’twas the kind of a curdled jellyfish matrimony had made out of him.</p>
 			<p>“Homicide was what that Mariana had perpetrated. He was looking well enough, but he had on a white collar and shoes, and you could tell in a minute that he’d speak polite and pay taxes and stick his little finger out while drinking, just like a sheep man or a citizen. Great skyrockets! but I hated to see Perry all corrupted and Willie-ized like that.</p>
-			<p>“He came out to the gate, and shook hands; and I says, with scorn, and speaking like a paroquet with the pip: ‘Beg pardon⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rountree, I believe. Seems to me I sagatiated in your associations once, if I am not mistaken.’</p>
+			<p>“He came out to the gate, and shook hands; and I says, with scorn, and speaking like a parakeet with the pip: ‘Beg pardon⁠—<abbr>Mr.</abbr> Rountree, I believe. Seems to me I sagatiated in your associations once, if I am not mistaken.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Oh, go to the devil, Buck,’ says Perry, polite, as I was afraid he’d be.</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Well, then,’ says I, ‘you poor, contaminated adjunct of a sprinkling-pot and degraded household pet, what did you go and do it for? Look at you, all decent and unriotous, and only fit to sit on juries and mend the wood-house door. You was a man once. I have hostility for all such acts. Why don’t you go in the house and count the tidies or set the clock, and not stand out here in the atmosphere? A jackrabbit might come along and bite you.’</p>
 			<p>“ ‘Now, Buck,’ says Perry, speaking mild, and some sorrowful, ‘you don’t understand. A married man has got to be different. He feels different from a tough old cloudburst like you. It’s sinful to waste time pulling up towns just to look at their roots, and playing faro and looking upon red liquor, and such restless policies as them.’</p>